


Whiteout

by framedhim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform, salt_burn_porn challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:18:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2675216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framedhim/pseuds/framedhim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warnings:  possible Season10 spoilery<br/>Summary:  Blizzards and rambling talk kink</p><p>Written for grasshopr_molly 's prompt of "snowed in" on the LJ Salt_Burn_Porn challenge.  </p><p>Quick and dirty beta by abeautifullie3.  All mistakes are mine.  Especially the mistakes found in the original, non-edited version on LJ:  Imapla, "fancy oven name,"  mature mean, etc.   *imapla makes me die a little</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiteout

Looking back, Sam can fish out the pattern. He’s not willing to put a name to it, not yet. Not when the ground he and Dean walk on is cracked fine china, air surrounding them layered with regret and a tenuous webbing of hope. Not that he’s unaware of Dean’s mad genius, but the lengths to which his brother has gone…

Sam’s not so sure that the warm adoration he feels without hesitation is appropriate, not when perhaps he should be diligently on alert and worried. Perhaps he should be appropriately terrified.

Looking back, Sam can’t find it within himself to feel that rage or worry, to make it stop.

+

They’ve been this before. Once upon a time ago, when their skin was only slightly marred, their bones and joints and eyes less mature, wary but still unaware of everything in the all of the universe that would twist them unrecognizable, steel them into monsters.

Once, they’d had one another. Windows full of moonlight shining across a vast expanse of snowy field. Moonlight spread out across a small double mattress, young adult bodies underneath a warm down comforter to block out the chilled air seeping in through holes in the walls. Alone, they’d had something that was quiet and taboo and lain out to pasture with terms of ‘need’ and ‘yours’ and ‘shh, it’s okay.’

Once is a lifetime or even a hundred of them ago. It’s Hell and perfumed lipstick stains on jackets and unshaven necks, and it’s a bastard of a red mark that took away a purity of hope. Once is too far away to remember until it’s Now, and Now is building up foundations familiar and dancing around possibilities of more. 

+

Looking back, Sam remembers Michigan. 

There’s a small leak under the copper kitchen sink, and the puddle of water that’s spilled out from under the sink’s oak cabinet is steadily increasing, staining the expensive wood floors of the cabin. The cabinet doors are open, with tools and work rags and adhesive fiberglass tape meticulously splayed out beneath the pipes.

They’re holed up in a cabin on the outskirts of Ypsilanti, a deserted holiday cabin, the cabin with the rustic living room furniture that costs more than twice the amount of Dean’s beloved souped up Impala. They’ve been entrusted with not destroying this getaway home of the aunt of a cousin of an ex-lover of a hunter who felt he owed them after they saved his hide, twice. 

Emmanuel tossed them the keys a week ago. Second save. Piss covering the front of his pants and the burnt char of Wendigo over all their clothing. Four days since they found themselves on the road, trying to beat the blistering wind and snow of a polar vortex that descended on the northeast. No less than a grand total of two whole days shut inside, and already they’re destroying the fucking flooring. Like neither of them have the common decency to not be heathens and make a mess.

Sam eyeballs the leak, his forehead resting against the chiseled lip of the concrete slab counter. There’s a pause between each drip, three seconds between the bubble of water forming and then plunking down with a quiet plop. Three lazy seconds. 

An eternity that matches the rhythmic roll behind him, punishing and consistent.

The hot mist of his breath ghosts out as he opens up, mouth forming a loose O of pleasure.

Sam sets his feet apart another quarter inch, lifts his hips, and that puts his sights on the small details of chipped, fire engine red paint on Dean’s pipe wrench handle and the color of purple joint sealant around the PVC piping. Behind him, Dean looses a steady stream of words, detailing the night ahead. 

Dean’s breathless on every three words, not that it stops his talk of scheduling. 

“Roast beef with carrots… that arugula salad… said you’ve wanted.”

The words are there, to spit at Dean to shut up because what the ever-living fuck, but his voice isn’t in line with his brain. There’s something insanely decadent and wrong with Dean carrying on that flips Sam’s switch. As if they’re doing nothing more than household repairs instead of Sam bent over, ass in the air, Dean sliding in hot and thick like he has the right at any time. Thoughts that make Sam grit his teeth, nasty thrills that burn sharp and perfect just as a bruising rub over the lower notches of his spine bleeds into the moment.

A terrycloth holiday kitchen towel gets knocked to the ground as Sam skates his fingers across the counter for a better grip. “Happy Holidays” cross-stitched in blue lettering blinks in and out of his vision, the pain of being ridden slow causing him to blink rapidly. He needs better traction to slam backwards. He needs to pull his jeans down more so that his thighs aren’t trapped. He needs to wrap his hand around his dick before his brain melts. 

“Not a chance in hell. Only thing you’re grabbing is the pipe wrench.” Dean doesn’t speed up, but he slaps Sam’s hand away. It stings, just not as much as the secondary smack to his ass, the slap hard enough to bring Sam to his toes. 

Dean’s own movement is unencumbered. He’d walked into the kitchen to grab a snack and kept on past the fridge, straight over to Sam’s bent form already half under the sink. Sam hadn’t gotten a hello, hi, or even a, “Watcha up to?”. He was, however, yanked into position so fast, it’s amazing he didn’t knock himself out as he lifted his head. 

Too little lube makes the drag of Dean inside him a shade near uncomfortable. To distract, he does as Dean says and reaches for the wrench. Light denim scrapes the inside of his thighs, Dean’s rough jab a momentary promise until his steady, maddening pace resumes. Sam’s left with a fingertip toying around the grooved notches of the pipe wrench’s lower lip, his attention on the serious issue of his own length, dick hard and woefully untouched.

Dean’s voice cuts into the need, overpowers a screech of wind outside the cabin’s walls. “…into town tomorrow when the white-out blows over, shovel… way outside.” Dean’s knee comes up, denimed thigh on the outside of Sam’s own like he’s on a mission to make Sam beg for mercy with each damn word. The move causes Sam to ungainly shuffle to bring his legs together, lowers his ass, and changes Dean’s angle. A position that gets Dean to begin to pull out, leaving empty space, masochistic and sadistic. 

Three seconds of drag, slow molasses as the water drips and Sam drips, ugly curses on the tip of his tongue to fill up the void of silence Dean’s left them in. Three seconds until Sam feels a pop of pressure, blunt and unmistakable as Dean sighs and lines himself up once more. Interminable waiting until finally, finally Dean pushes in and Sam lets loose of the counter and grabs his knee as Dean nails that spark of a spot. Punishes and pulses and unloads inside Sam, and Sam has to hold himself up because god damn if he doesn’t fall over the edge on a silent scream, hot release out of him on one slide.

The oven timer reads noon as Sam stands up on iffy, shaky legs and pulls his boxer briefs and jeans back into place. There’s a bottle of vanilla sugar cookie soft soap in the bathroom, calling their names. Dean sounds unaffected, looks Sam in the eye with a pleased smile and crinkles around the eyes as he starts to drone on about getting a fire going. 

“Pick up the towel, would ya, Sammy?” 

Response time obviously on the fritz, Sam obliges. It’s one second too late when he feels himself leak because Dean is a possessive Neanderthal who takes far too much pride in his handiwork. That’s okay though as Sam is equally possessive, and even though he’s a mature, grown man, he’s also an annoying little brother when duty calls. One who enjoys a healthy dose of one-upmanship and is fast as hell, a fact that’s going to come in handy when he hands Dean the spirited, soiled linen to wipe up. 

+

The second time isn’t obvious.

They’re sliding further East, two steps ahead of ice and three behind blizzards. Upstate New York, Utica and Seneca and falls this of that. Trapped inside a no-name bed and breakfast that holds less finery of the cabin and more quaint. 

The manager is in a bind with his boyfriend, and the ghost they salt and burned last night is a forgotten detail, so Sam obliges. Their source of heat is a newer wooden fireplace, and no one else is booked. Only Sam and Dean, so Sam steps out into the blinding snow as Dean sleeps. His flannel layers, green jacket, and reddened hands lost in the haze as the manager hands him an axe and sways in the wind, points to a pile of wood beside the building.

One hour later, Sam comes inside frostbitten and laden with logs. The fire catches easily, pine crackling. Dean is sleep heavy when he clomps down the staircase, but his eyes catch just as easily. 

It’s not like it was previous times, those two times when Dean maneuvered Sam into position and slid on home, but it’s just as unerringly needed. There’s a catch of sleep sweat against Sam’s lips when Dean immediately slides into Sam’s lap. He licks and savors and nips to distract from Dean’s naked form, robe falling open as strong thighs straddle his own. 

“Had a dream, Sam. Missed you, but I woke up thirsty. Watched you outside while I was taking a piss, fogged up the stupid bathroom window.”

It’s not dirty talk. Quite the opposite, so Sam would complain, only Dean has his hand wrapped around Sam’s dick. There’s a wet slide and glide to the tug and pull, the catch of his slit on Dean’s fingertips. Lube. It’s one word, stuck in his mind like he’s an idiot and can’t think properly.

“The bathroom light… replace it. Broken.” Dean guides Sam back and lines up, sinks down on trembling thighs. It takes a year, Sam’s convinced and is just fine with that. Is fine with Dean smacking his hand away from Dean’s length bobbing between them. Is copa-freakin-cetic with everything because holy shit. 

Dean throws his head back, mouthing quiet words of appreciating Sam covered in snow. Sam hangs on until he can’t, until Dean clamps down and shoots across Sam’s face and that is that.

Sam can’t be bothered to be pissed when Dean teases him about facials for the next week. Win win situations.

+

The third time, Sam has an inkling. Carrying a shovel, trudging through a foot of snow is a clue. Dean sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, feet planted on the ground, thighs bracketing Sam’s as he blows him within an inch of his life is another. 

Talking about random grocery shopping between infuriating kitten licks and mind-numbing, vacuum-sealed face fucking is the tip of the hat.

Sam isn’t stupid enough to mention it. He returns the favor (spit not swallow as the taste of come makes him gag) and makes a few mental notes.

+

Now is Now and Sam and Dean are what that long ago time promised. There’s still the occasional lipstick between them. The red mark is glaring. The next time is when Sam sets his mind to talking, only Dean pulls them over before they reach the bunker. There’s no hesitation in Dean’s face these days, only the reddened outline of a cold threatening his pretty princess eyes. Sam tells him as much and gets a punch in the arm for the effort. 

Worth it.

Double so when Dean looks over and asks if everything is okay. As if they can’t go inside the bunker unless it’s all better. Home is home, the Impala a comforting neutral ground. The bunker is a home for the time being, and there’s enough bad juju that happened in there, between them, to rip it apart at the seams.

“Yeah, man. Seriously, just get us back.”

+

Dean has Sam spread over the library table, pounds into him with enough force to scoot the entire thing back an inch. On his back, legs wrapped around Dean and barely hanging on, Sam can watch the trickle of sweat falling down the bridge of Dean’s nose. He can map the freckles across his brother’s face better than any constellation. What he wants to see is Dean’s mouth moving.

“Need to fix the hinges on my room’s door..”

Sam laughs and asks, “Sure you don’t want to dump some snow on me while I’m doing it? Gonna fuck me on the bed this time or right against the door, can of WD still in my hand?”

Dean is amused enough, but there’s no shame. It’s as dirty hot as it was the first time, an unusual kink that Sam is more than willing to live with.

“We’re snowed in. Need you to…”

Sam can’t quite get all the words out, he’s about to come and his calves fucking hurt and feel glorious wrapped up against Dean’s tight ass as it clenches, Dean screwing in with more force.

He manages, “Yeah, I get it now.”

Looking back, Sam’s more than okay with it all.


End file.
